The river towns slept uneasily.
Even under Kaeldor's banners, fear lingered like damp smoke. Doors were barred before sunset. Mothers pulled children close at the sound of armored boots. Fires were kept low, as if light itself might invite punishment.
That was the cost of the decision I'd made.
I walked the perimeter alone, boots crunching softly against gravel and frost-bitten grass. The river flowed beside us, dark and patient, carrying barges heavy with grain downstream under armed escort. Every sack moved now bore our seal.
Control had been established.
Trust had not.
A sentry straightened as I approached. "Commander."
"At ease," I said. "Anything unusual?"
He hesitated. "Too quiet, sir."
I nodded. "Quiet means listening."
At dawn, the first consequence arrived.
Not with steel.
With words.
A delegation from Rathmere, one of the larger river towns, arrived under a white banner. Three men and a woman, all dressed plainly, faces tight with restrained anger.
They were escorted into the requisition hall—once a merchant guildhouse, now stripped bare except for a long table and a map pinned to the wall.
They did not sit until I did.
"You've taken our stores," the woman said, voice steady. "Our winter grain."
"I've secured them," I replied. "There's a difference."
She leaned forward. "Children don't survive on differences."
Ril stood behind me, arms crossed. I could feel his discomfort like a weight.
"You were supplying Stonewake," I said. "Stonewake fell because someone inside
chose Draeven."
"That was not us."
"I know," I replied. "But fear doesn't."
The oldest man spoke then, eyes sharp. "So you punish us to prove strength."
"No," I said calmly. "I protect you to deny weakness."
They stared at me, unconvinced.
"You'll be fed," I continued. "At fixed allotments. No shortages. No excess. Any attempt to divert supplies to Draeven agents will be treated as treason."
The woman's jaw tightened. "And if Draeven comes anyway?"
"Then you'll already be under our shield," I said. "And they'll find nothing to take."
Silence stretched.
Finally, she exhaled. "You speak like a conqueror."
"I act like a guardian," I replied. "History decides which I was."
By midday, scouts returned with worse news.
Draeven forces were on the move—not massed, not marching openly. Small units. Detached columns. Raiders moving along the southern tributaries.
Testing.
Probing.
Learning how we'd respond.
"They're mapping reactions," Elren said, stabbing a finger into the map. "Seeing which towns panic."
"And which ones we can't reach fast enough," Ril added.
I studied the markings. "They're not aiming to break us yet."
Elren frowned. "Then what?"
"To bleed us," I said. "Slowly."
A runner entered, breathless. "Commander—one of the southern villages. Bramholt. It's burning."
"How many?" I asked.
"Scouts say less than a hundred Draeven troops. In and out."
I closed my eyes briefly.
There it was.
The test.
We rode hard.
The village of Bramholt lay half in ash by the time we arrived. Smoke drifted low over collapsed roofs. Livestock lay dead in the streets. The bodies of three men and a woman were laid near the well, throats cut cleanly.
Not chaos.
A message.
The villagers gathered when they saw us, anger breaking through fear.
"You promised protection!" someone shouted.
Ril dismounted before I could stop him. "We came as fast as—"
"You came too late," another voice spat.
I raised my hand. Silence followed—not out of respect, but exhaustion.
I dismounted slowly.
"This attack wasn't about conquest," I said. "It was about doubt."
A man stepped forward, eyes red. "Doubt in who?"
"In us," I replied. "And in yourselves."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"They want you to believe Kaeldor can't protect you," I continued. "So you'll open your gates next time."
"And can you?" the man demanded.
I met his gaze. "Watch."
We didn't chase the Draeven raiders.
We predicted them.
By nightfall, three smaller units had been encircled along the southern tributary. Cut off from escape routes they thought unguarded. Trapped between river bends and forest edges.
They fought hard when cornered.
Draeven soldiers always did.
When it was over, forty-seven lay dead. Twelve surrendered.
I ordered them bound, not executed.
Ril approached me as the prisoners were dragged forward. "They'll expect slaughter."
"Expectation is a weapon," I said.
I turned to the prisoners. "You'll be released tomorrow."
Confusion flickered across their faces.
"You'll return to your commanders," I continued. "And you'll tell them this: Kaeldor does not answer raids with fear."
One of them spat. "You think mercy makes you strong?"
"No," I said evenly. "Control does."
That night, a fire was lit in Bramholt's square.
The villagers gathered as the captured Draeven banners were burned—slowly, deliberately.
I spoke once, and only once.
"Stonewake fell because someone chose betrayal over patience," I said. "That choice ends here."
No cheers followed.
But no one left.
That was enough.
Later, alone in my tent, I unrolled the map again.
Stonewake—lost.
Valmere—silent, watching.
The river towns—uneasy, but held.
Draeven—probing, adjusting.
This war was no longer about territory.
It was about belief.
Ril entered quietly. "They're calling you something," he said.
I didn't look up. "What?"
"The Warden of the River."
I let the name sit between us.
"Legends begin like that," he added. "With fear."
I folded the map. "Then let's make sure they fear the right thing."
Outside, the river flowed on, carrying ash downstream—toward lands that still believed neutrality could save them.
Soon, they would learn otherwise.